Last Meeting
by rhead-a-holyc
Summary: The crow had represented true death in its silky black feathered cloak, whispering secrets of the world beyond the living in its croaky cry. A cry you had heard, relentlessly, the entire morning until you believed it ingrained into your very memory.


**Quidditch League Round 11 – Appleby Arrows**

**Year - 1958**

**Chaser 3 – Write about a day someone dies**

**Prompts: (picture); (restriction) no word 'said'; (poem) Strange Meeting, Wilfred Owen**

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><p><em>With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,<em>

_Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless._

_And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—_

_By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell._

_- Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen_

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><p>The cawing of the black crow had symbolized death for as long as you remembered. You didn't know if it was the same crow, but there had been one watching you as you stood next to the tombstone of your mother as she was laid to rest. Her final slumber from a hard life filled with weariness and loss.<p>

The crow had represented true death in its silky black feathered cloak, whispering secrets of the world beyond the living in its croaky cry. A cry you had heard, relentlessly, the entire morning until you believed it ingrained into your very memory.

You hadn't expected this though. You would never have expected this half-dead form of the man you once loved, and still did, who was believed to be dead to show up at your door.

The recognition in his eyes told you that he was still somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, but the coldness surrounding that recognition told you that he was too far away for you to ever reach him. That didn't mean that you couldn't try. You would never be able to stop yourself from doing at least that.

That cold smile was fixed on his face, so very much like his usual one, except the spark of laughter that usually accompanied it no longer graced his eyes.

You couldn't tell what he was. His skin was hard and unmoving, looking very much like it was beginning to decompose off his very bones. The sight of a body rotting like his was would have been disgusting had it been anyone else, but this was _him_. This was the one person you loved beyond reason.

You knew not everyone returned from the war like this, so cold, so dead. The men who returned were weary and tired, as if they had seen too much, but they never looked as if they were rotting from the inside out, as if their souls had begun to rot.

His eyes follow you as you move through your home, trying to get something for him to eat, for surely he was hungry or thirsty. As you step into the room with some food and a cup of tea, you realize that his chest does not rise and fall with life. There is no breath entering and leaving his body, and you realize that something is terribly wrong. You don't know or understand what yet, but you feel worry override your suspicion.

Your arms reach for his skin as you place the tray to your side, only to feel the iciness of his skin.

Only the dead wore skin that cold, like a piece of clothing that could carelessly be discarded for another.

Only the dead sat so still, as if movement were unnecessary.

Only the dead forgot to breathe, as if the necessity of the air had long since been forgotten.

His hands grip yours in an iron grip, the grip of death some people called it. The last hold a person had before they died, the hold they never let relinquish, but his body was still moving even when yours was no longer free.

You were now frozen in time as he dragged you deeper into the house. The memories he held seemed to be exactly the same as he found no problem maneuvering around the house, despite it being nearly a year of him not walking within these walls, completely bypassing the squeaking stair that lead to your bedroom.

Night had long since fallen. The candles were the only pinpricks of light within the house as they glittered on the highest surface she could reach of almost every room. The stars were blocked by the heavy clouds that weighed with the promise of rain and another angry darkness.

You couldn't find it within yourself to fight the tugging. You glimpse the glittering of the dancing candles as it catches the edge of a blade, before continuing its dance of shadows, but the fear you knew you would usually fear is not ignited within you. You didn't know what he was capable of now, and you knew he had changed, but you clung to your old memory of him. That was the one thing you wished would never change.

Your decision had been made the moment you opened the door to the body that was all that remained of your husband. Your every action afterwards had lead you to the point in the near future that you knew the result of, yet you could not run away. You could not bring yourself to escape.

You could not bring yourself to fight for the survival you had hated because for the past three months, ever since the letter came, you had been as good as dead yourself. The pain of knowing and feeling the loss outweighed the thought and instinctive fear of death.

Your hope had only been raised to be crushed once more.

Stumbling into the bedroom, fading memories assaulted you. It had been so long since both of you had been in this bedroom together. It was almost reminiscent.

You vaguely note the lamp you had forgotten to blow last night still dancing next to your bed. The movements of the shadows on the far side of the room make you smile, and you turn to make a joke, only to realize your arm is no longer gripped by those strong hands.

His face is still blank as he stares at you. His gaze, although dead, makes you question your joke, and fall silent again. The thickness of the air seemed to want to swallow you whole.

It all happens quickly and you barely notice the piercing sensation of the blade.

All you know is the sudden warmth at your side, and the blue eyes that had suddenly filled your vision. The eyes were still cold and detached but you fancied somewhere deep inside you could see a hint of sadness and regret. You believed that somewhere, if you looked hard enough, you would be able to see the person you had fallen in love with one last time.

That was all you could ask for after the years of loneliness and separationg.

All too soon you were falling out of his arms.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Just like the first time, except he had caught you that time, not been the one to drop you.

Even dying, your instinct to stand upright kicks in, and you attempt to grab onto the nearest surface for balance.

You hit the candle that you had been amused by only minutes earlier and the fire escapes, burning everything it touches. Soon all you have left to admire are the dancing flames that do not allow shadows to pass. They remained as beautiful, if not more so than the shadows had been.

You notice the body had not moved. Some instinct tells you that even the undead body will not survive a fire. You almost scream for him to leave, despite everything he's just done, but your voice is lost within the crackling of the burning house.

You can only watch through heavy eyelids as the fire races up his clothing, and burns begin to appear on his skin.

You smell burnt flesh, and it takes you a minute to realize it's yours. You can't feel it. Your body is too cold despite the heated air.

The last sight you see before your eyes close together are those blue eyes, dead, but for a minute in the wavering air you think you may see pain and the regret of broken dreams.

Knowing he is there somehow comforts you, even as you sink into the dark depths of the unknown. It still feels like he's guarding you, like he's trying to follow you wherever you go.

All thoughts cease as you finally rest.


End file.
